A Spear of Summer Grass Read online

  Paris, 1923

  The daughter of a scandalous mother, Delilah Drummond is already notorious, even amongst Paris society. But her latest scandal is big enough to make even her oft-married mother blanch. Delilah is exiled to Kenya and her favorite stepfather’s savannah manor house until gossip subsides.

  Fairlight is the crumbling, sun-bleached skeleton of a faded African dream, a world where dissolute expats are bolstered by gin and jazz records, cigarettes and safaris. As mistress of this wasted estate, Delilah falls into the decadent pleasures of society.

  Against the frivolity of her peers, Ryder White stands in sharp contrast. As foreign to Delilah as Africa, Ryder becomes her guide to the complex beauty of this unknown world. Giraffes, buffalo, lions and elephants roam the shores of Lake Wanyama amid swirls of red dust. Here, life is lush and teeming—yet fleeting and often cheap.

  Amidst the wonders—and dangers—of Africa, Delilah awakes to a land out of all proportion: extremes of heat, darkness, beauty and joy that cut to her very heart. Only when this sacred place is profaned by bloodshed does Delilah discover what is truly worth fighting for—and what she can no longer live without.Don’t believe the stories you have heard about me.

  I have never killed anyone, and I have never stolen another woman’s husband. Oh, if I find one lying around unattended, I might climb on, but I never took one that didn’t want taking.

  And I never meant to go to Africa.

  Praise for Deanna Raybourn

  “With a strong and unique voice,

  Deanna Raybourn creates unforgettable characters

  in a richly detailed world. This is storytelling at its most compelling.”

  —Nora Roberts, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “[A] perfectly executed debut… Deft historical detailing

  [and] sparkling first-person narration.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Silent in the Grave

  “A riveting drama that makes page turning obligatory.

  A very fine debut effort from Deanna Raybourn.”

  —Bookreporter.com on Silent in the Grave

  “A sassy heroine and a masterful, secretive hero. Fans of romantic mystery could ask no more—except the promised sequel.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Silent in the Grave

  “This debut novel has one of the most clever endings I’ve seen.”

  —Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author,

  on Silent in the Grave

  “Deceptively civilized and proper, Silent in the Grave has undercurrents of nefarious deeds, secrets and my favorite, poisons.

  An excellent debut novel.”

  —Maria V. Snyder, author of Poison Study, on Silent in the Grave

  “There are some lovely twists in the plot

  and a most satisfactory surprise ending. I hope to read more

  from Deanna Raybourn in time to come.”

  —Valerie Anand, author of The Siren Queen

  written under the name of Fiona Buckley, on Silent in the Grave

  “Fans and new readers alike will welcome this sparkling sequel

  to Raybourn’s debut Victorian mystery, Silent in the Grave…

  the complex mystery, a delightfully odd collection of characters

  and deft period details produce a rich and funny read.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Silent in the Sanctuary

  “Raybourn takes a leisurely approach to the meat of the

  complex story, meticulously detailing the many colorful characters and creepy Victorian-era setting. But once the game’s afoot,

  the pace picks up nicely. This is an excellent way

  to while away a couple of cold evenings.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Silent in the Sanctuary

  “Following Silent in the Grave and Silent in the Sanctuary,

  the newest book in the Lady Julia Grey series has a lot to measure up to—and it does.… A great choice for mystery,

  historical fiction and/or romance readers.”

  —Library Journal on Silent on the Moor

  “Raybourn…delightfully evokes the language, tension

  and sweeping grandeur of 19th-century gothic novels.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Dead Travel Fast

  “Raybourn skillfully balances humor and earnest, deadly drama, creating well-drawn characters and a rich setting.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Dark Road to Darjeeling

  “Raybourn expertly evokes late-nineteenth-century colonial India

  in this rollicking good read, distinguished by its

  delightful lady detective and her colorful family.”

  —Booklist on Dark Road to Darjeeling

  “Beyond the development of Julia’s detailed world,

  her boisterous family and dashing husband, this book

  provides a clever mystery and unique perspective on the Victorian era through the eyes of an unconventional lady.”

  —Library Journal on The Dark Enquiry

  DEANNA RAYBOURN

  A Spear of Summer Grass

  For Valerie Gray, gifted editor and maker of magic.

  I am a better writer for knowing you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  Questions for Discussion

  1

  Don’t believe the stories you have heard about me. I have never killed anyone, and I have never stolen another woman’s husband. Oh, if I find one lying around unattended, I might climb on, but I never took one that didn’t want taking. And I never meant to go to Africa. I blame it on the weather. It was a wretched day in Paris, grey and gloomy and spitting with rain, when I was summoned to my mother’s suite at the Hotel de Crillon. I had dressed carefully for the occasion, not because Mossy would care—my mother is curiously unfussy about such things. But I knew wearing something chic would make me feel a little better about the ordeal to come. So I put on a divine little Molyneux dress in scarlet silk with a matching cloche, topped it with a clever chinchilla stole and left my suite, boarded the lift and rode up two floors to her rooms.

  My mother’s Swedish maid answered the door with a scowl.

  “Good afternoon, Ingeborg. I hope you’ve been well?”

  The scowl deepened. “Your mother is worried about you,” she informed me coldly. “And I am worried about your mother.” Ingeborg had been worrying about my mother since before I was born. The fact that I had been a breech baby was enough to put me in her black books forever.

  “Oh, don’t fuss, Ingeborg. Mossy is strong as an ox
. All her people live to be a hundred or more.”

  Ingeborg gave me another scowl and ushered me into the main room of the suite. Mossy was there, of course, holding court in the centre of a group of gentlemen. This was nothing new. Since her debut in New Orleans some thirty years before she had never been at a loss for masculine attention. She was standing at the fireplace, one elbow propped on the marble mantelpiece, dressed for riding and exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke as she talked.

  “But that’s just not possible, Nigel. I’m afraid it simply won’t do.” She was arguing with her ex-husband, but you’d have to know her well to realise it. Mossy never raised her voice.

  “What won’t do? Did Nigel propose something scandalous?” I asked hopefully. The men turned as one to look at me, and Mossy’s lips curved into a wide grin.

  “Hello, darling. Come and kiss me.” I did as she told me to, swiftly dropping a kiss to one powdered cheek. But not swiftly enough. She nipped me sharply with her fingertips as I edged away. “You’ve been naughty, Delilah. Time to pay the piper, darling.”

  I looked around the room, smiling at each of the gentlemen in turn. Nigel, my former stepfather, was a rotund Englishman with a florid complexion and a heart condition, and at the moment he looked about ten minutes past death. Quentin Harkness was there too, I was happy to see, and I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Like Mossy, I’ve had my share of matrimonial mishaps. Quentin was the second. He was a terrible husband, but he’s a divine ex and an even better solicitor.

  “How is Cornelia?” I asked him. “And the twins? Walking yet?”

  “Last month actually. And Cornelia is fine, thanks,” he said blandly. I only asked to be polite and he knew it. Cornelia had been engaged to him before our marriage, and she had snapped him back up before the ink was dry on our divorce papers. But the children were sweet, and I was glad he seemed happy. Of course, Quentin was English. It was difficult to tell how he felt about most things.

  I leaned closer. “How much trouble am I in?” I whispered. He bent down, his mouth just grazing the edge of my bob.

  “Rather a lot.”

  I pulled a face at him and took a seat on one of the fragile little sofas scattered about, crossing my legs neatly at the ankle just as my deportment teacher had taught me.

  “Really, Miss Drummond, I do not think you comprehend the gravity of the situation at all,” Mossy’s English solicitor began. I struggled to remember his name. Weatherby? Enderby? Endicott?

  I smiled widely, showing off Mossy’s rather considerable investment in my orthodontia.

  “I assure you I do, Mr.—” I broke off and caught a flicker of a smile on Quentin’s face. Drat him. I carried on as smoothly as I could manage. “That is to say, I am quite sure things will come right in the end. I have every intention of taking your excellent advice.” I had learned that particular soothing tone from Mossy. She usually used it on horses, but I found it worked equally well with men. Maybe better.

  “I am not at all certain of that,” replied Mr. Weatherby. Or perhaps Mr. Endicott. “You do realise that the late prince’s family are threatening legal action to secure the return of the Volkonsky jewels?”

  I sighed and rummaged in my bag for a Sobranie. By the time I had fixed the cigarette into the long ebony holder, Quentin and Nigel were at my side, offering a light. I let them both light it—it doesn’t do to play favourites—and blew out a cunning little smoke ring.

  “Oh, that is clever,” Mossy said. “You must teach me how to do it.”

  “It’s all in the tongue,” I told her. Quentin choked a little, but I turned wide-eyed to Mr. Enderby. “Misha didn’t have family,” I explained. “His mother and sisters came out of Russia with him during the Revolution, but his father and brother were with the White Army. They were killed in Siberia along with every other male member of his family. Misha only got out because he was too young to fight.”

  “There is the Countess Borghaliev,” he began, but I waved a hand.

  “Feathers! The countess was Misha’s governess. She might be related, but she’s only a cousin, and a very distant one at that. She is certainly not entitled to the Volkonsky jewels.” And even if she were, I had no intention of giving them up. The original collection had been assembled over the better part of three centuries and it was all the Volkonskys had taken with them as they fled. Misha’s mother and sisters had smuggled them out of Russia by sewing them into their clothes, all except the biggest of them. The Kokotchny emerald had been stuffed into an unmentionable spot by Misha’s mother before she left the mother country, and nobody ever said, but I bet she left it walking a little funny. She had assumed—and rightly as it turned out—that officials would be squeamish about searching such a place, and with a good washing it had shone as brightly as ever, all eighty carats of it. At least, that was the official story of the jewels. I knew a few things that hadn’t made the papers, things Misha had entrusted to me as his wife. I would sooner set my own hair on fire than see that vicious old Borghaliev cow discover the truth.

  “Perhaps that is so,” Mr. Endicott said, his expression severe, “but she is speaking to the press. Coming on the heels of the prince’s suicide and your own rather cavalier attitude towards mourning, the whole picture is a rather unsavoury one.”

  I looked at Quentin, but he was studying his nails, an old trick that meant he wasn’t going to speak until he was good and ready. And poor Nigel just looked as if his stomach hurt. Only Mossy seemed indignant, and I smiled a little to show her I appreciated her support.

  “You needn’t smile about it, pet,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting a fresh one. “Weatherby’s right. It is a pickle. I don’t need your name dragged through the mud just now. And Quentin’s practice is doing very well. Do you think he appreciates his ex-wife cooking up a scandal?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Darling, what do you mean you don’t need my name dragged through the mud just now? What do you have going?”

  Mossy looked to Nigel who shifted a little in his chair. “Mossy has been invited to the wedding of the Duke of York to the Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon this month.”

  I blinked. The wedding of the second in line to the throne was the social event of the year and one that ought to have been entirely beyond the pale for Mossy. “The queen doesn’t receive divorced women. How on earth did you manage that?”

  Mossy’s lips thinned. “It’s a private occasion, not Court,” she corrected. “Besides, you know how devoted I have always been to the Strathmores. The countess is one of my very dearest friends. It’s terribly gracious of them to invite me to their daughter’s big day, and it would not do to embarrass them with any sort of talk.”

  Ah, talk. The euphemism I had heard since childhood, the bane of my existence. I thought of how many times we had moved, from England to Spain to Argentina to Paris, and every time it was with the spectre of talk snapping at our heels. Mossy’s love affairs and business ventures were legendary. She could create more scandal by breakfast than most women would in an entire lifetime. She was larger than life, my Mossy, and in living that very large life she had accidentally crushed quite a few people under her dainty size-five shoe. She never understood that, not even now. She was standing in a hotel suite that cost more for a single night than most folks made in a year, and she could pay for it with the spare change she had in her pockets, but she would never understand that she had damaged people to get there.

  Of course, she noticed it at once if I did anything amiss, I thought irritably. Let one of her marriages fail and it was entirely beyond her control, but if I got divorced it was because I didn’t try hard enough or didn’t understand how to be a wife.

  “Don’t sulk, Delilah,” she ordered. “You are far too old to pout.”

  “I am not pouting,” I retorted, sounding about fourteen as I said it. I sighed and turned back to the solicitor. “Y
ou see, Mr. Weatherby, people just don’t understand my relationship with Misha. Our marriage was over long before he put that bullet into his head.” Mr. Weatherby winced visibly. I tried again. “It was no surprise to Misha that I wanted a divorce. And the fact that he killed himself immediately after he received the divorce papers is not my fault. I even saw Misha that morning and stressed to him I wanted things to be very civil. I am friends with all of my husbands.”

  “I’m the only one still living,” Quentin put in, rather unhelpfully, I thought.

  I stuck out my tongue at him again and turned back to Mr. Weatherby. “As to the jewels, Misha’s mother and both sisters died in the Spanish flu outbreak in ’19. He inherited the jewels outright, and he gave them to me as a wedding gift.”

  “They would have been returned as part of the divorce settlement,” Weatherby reminded me.

  “There was no divorce,” I said, trumping him neatly. “Misha did not sign the papers before he died. I am therefore technically a widow and entitled to my husband’s estate as he died with neither a will nor issue.”

  Mr. Weatherby took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Be that as it may, Miss Drummond, the whole affair is playing out quite badly in the press. If you could only be more discreet about the matter, perhaps put on proper mourning or use your rightful name.”

  “Delilah Drummond is my rightful name. I have never taken a husband’s name or title, and I never will. Frankly, I think it’s a little late in the day to start calling myself Princess Volkonsky.” Quentin twitched a little, but I ignored him. The truth was I had seen Mossy change her name more times than I could count on one hand, and it was hell on the linen and the silver. Far more sensible to keep a single monogram. “It’s a silly, antiquated custom,” I went on. “You men have been forcing us to change our names for the last four thousand years. Why don’t we switch it up? You lot can take our names for the next few millennia and see how you like it.”

  “Stop her before she builds up a head of steam,” Mossy instructed Nigel. She hated it when I talked about women’s rights.